I, Too Am A Trophy, Um, Something…

I met a real life trophy wife this weekend. I've heard stories of them, and there seem to be quite a few on TV these days, but until this weekend, like many of the folk who stare in wonder at our carriage horses, I'd never seen a "real one."

I recognized her species almost immediately: she wore a beautiful, delicate and expensive looking dress, large fake boobs, flawless makeup, diamond everything, some kind of shoe that I'm sure did not come from Payless, and had a plethora of yoga muscles. In the ladies room, a modern day watering hole where we women tend to gather, I waited patiently for an empty stall while she schooled her young, mirror images of her finely groomed self, in the art of primping and presentation. She couldn’t have been over five foot tall and maybe weighed 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was discussing her $42.00 control top panty hose—

Cue the sound of an automobile coming to a swerving, screeching, crashing halt:

Hold. The. Phone.

Like a deer in headlights, I was stunned. Immobile. Shocked into a stillness I usually cannot ever achieve.

Did she just say she paid FORTY-TWO DOLLARS FOR A. PAIR. OF. NYLONS???

When I finally recovered my senses, I looked this stick of a tiny thing over again.

Slave Driver then stares off into an imaginary horizon (being that she's in the bathroom and is surrounded by cinderblock walls it takes more than a little imagination to do so) and wonders WTF would someone who is as big around as her entire thigh needs control top panty hose…

And who in their right mind pays $42.00 for them?

Snort.

Me? I wish L'Eggs would come up with a Control-top Burka I could shimmy into (after being liberally spritzed down with Pam for lubrication purposes) to make everything look thinner, but I find that I usually just end up looking like a sausage. And if I ever did spend that kind of cashola for nylons (which, BTW, I usually immediately and irreversibly jam my thumbnail through, causing a HUGE run, which, due to their super tight control top features, usually causes an extra lump of cellulite of pop out, thus changing the sausage look to one more like a stunted Calamari)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, if I ever put out that kind of serious cash for panty hose I'd better get a lap dance, a pony, and my car waxed out of the deal.

But, you see, that's what makes me a trophy wife also. Well, at least to my husband. See, what I may lack in high, tight boobs, a tanned, toned body and pearly white teeth so big they could pass for Chicklets I make up for in being frugal, subjectively hardworking, and not at all interested in name brands, trends, or Vogue magazine. Instead of going to a studio and doing Pilates, I mow the lawn. Instead of making reservations, I make dinner. I can fix my own car heater switch, rewire lights on horse and boat trailers, and am versed in reviving muddy suede chaps by washing them with Murphy's Oil Soap and tons & tons of fabric softener then laying them flat (away from any heat source) to dry.

Plus, and I suspect one of two reasons why he hasn't traded me in for a younger, toned and polished model, I make Mr. Slave Driver laugh. A lot.

The second reason is my muscles are the kind you get from lifting heavy things repeatedly. So he knows that if confronted with a thin, delicate sweet young replacement thang, I could easily snap her neck, thus handily elimination the competition.